


mirror | manor

by graywhatsit



Series: Mirror [2]
Category: Video Blogging RPF, Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Humor, Origin Story, Other, after mirror | void, full of headcanons, post-wkm, sequel work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:21:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27842194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graywhatsit/pseuds/graywhatsit
Summary: After the events of Mirror | Void, a newly-christened Dark has two goals: take revenge on Mark, and, hopefully...Find the DA.
Relationships: Damien | The Mayor/Y/N | The District Attorney (Who Killed Markiplier?), Darkiplier/Y/N | The District Attorney (Who Killed Markiplier?), Mark Fischbach/Y/N | The District Attorney, all implied
Series: Mirror [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2038039
Comments: 28
Kudos: 87





	1. Chapter 1

Once, not so long ago, Dark had one goal and one goal, only: to find and kill Mark, as retribution for everything that bastard, that  _ snake _ put everyone through. The people who suffered and died as a direct result of his atrocious revenge plot deserved that, at least.

Now...

Now, his planning is split.

Half of his time, squirreled away in the Void, he drafts plans, makes note of Mark’s last known whereabouts, considers the people he keeps close as a shield to analyze for weakness. It’s a delicate operation, and one that needs to be pulled off just right for justice’s sake.

_ That’s revenge, not justice. _

Of course, the other half...

The other half makes his time in the Void unbearable. The other half makes him stare at the burnished wood, ornately carved but innocent, propped up against nothing, and wish he could grind the cursed thing to sawdust. The other half makes him unable to follow through with all of his scheming.

They were a conscience he couldn’t afford, so he cast them out, and yet...

Yet, their voice still lingers in his head.

_ We don’t have to kill him, we can figure something else out. _

_ Let me help you. _

_ Wait, no— Da—! _

They were about to say his name. The old one, from before...

Before all of this. All of this pain and heartbreak and bitterness.

His new name is just another reminder of them, given in a moment of thoughtlessness and yet so apropos that they may have just done it on purpose. He wouldn’t put it past them to be so incisive, so direct with their word choice; a good portion of their victories were as a result of seemingly-innocuous yet perfect wording, only revealing itself as cunning when they grinned at him once the entire case was over and done with.

What he does with the other half of his time is just as much to wipe has hands of them as it is a desperate attempt to...

To what? Keep them? Remember them?

Save them?

That’s what Damien— the other little voice inside his head that is him but isn’t, the last thread of the man he was before his anger and bitter detachment took hold— wants. He loves them more than almost anything and never stopped, not for a second. If there’s even a  _ possibility _ that they remain, somewhere in the universe, he’ll do anything he can to bring them back.

( _ Because it’s my fault _ , he says.  _ It’s all my fault. _ )

Dark’s desires... are less clear, even to himself.

The final straw isn’t that he grows sick of their voice in his head, the incessant memories from Damien, the frustration of simply not being able to complete his goals.

It’s that all of those shards, the ones he wished away at first sight, start appearing again. Glittering little fragments like stars in the black, scattered over the floor.

It might be some karmic punishment.

It might be his guilt over shattering the mirror in the first place.

Either way, it’s here he decides it.

He needs to find a new place to get work done.

One that  _ doesn’t _ react to his mental state.

But he can’t do that alone. Or, rather... he doesn’t want to.

Alone has gotten him nowhere. With another person Mark wronged, with a man so chaotic as to override the lingering voice of justice in his mind... maybe. Maybe it’ll work.

Just where is Wilford, anyway?

As it turns out, a roller rink.

“I don’t believe,” he begins, upon his arrival, “that this is quite the popular thing you believe it is, these days.”

Why would it be? The carpeted portion is offensively garish, thin and sticky patterned carpet, the smell of cheap food and grease. Annoyingly catchy music pipes in over the rink, itself, the smooth floor and walls creating the perfect echo chamber of acoustic irritation.

Everything is so  _ much _ , now, he can’t understand it.

Wilford, to his credit, doesn’t bat an eye at his sudden appearance from nowhere. “Now, now, Damien—“

“Dark,” he corrects, not unkindly, to no avail.

“— you said the same thing about disco,” Wilford continues. His mustache, curling further and far more pink than black, twitches as he attempts to sip... something. It’s in a martini glass, but it is  _ certainly _ no martini. “Just because you don’t like it doesn’t make it unpopular, party pooper.”

Dark sighs. “I don’t pretend to understand public interest.” Not anymore, at least, and the static around him spikes at the reminder. “I didn’t come to debate the merits of skates versus blades, however.”

“You know I always prefer blades—“

“I came to ask you for help.”

Wilford pauses in pulling an inexplicable, likely illegal, knife from somewhere in the folds of his shorts. His eyes shine. “Help? What is it, Dames? If it’s that bad, glitchy man again, I’ll give him what-for, just you wait and see!”

He doesn’t pretend to understand Wilford, either. The only ‘glitchy man’ he knows is  _ himself _ . “I’m looking for a base of operations, as it were. And, I was hoping you might lend your... eccentricity to the cause.”

“You want me to be your partner and move in with you?” Wilford simply isn’t in front of him, anymore— rather, his voice comes from nearby, a Doppler effect over the roll of wheels on wood. He doesn’t skid to a stop, just changes direction to skate backwards. “I thought you’d never ask— it’s been decades, Damien, you really know how to keep a man waiting. Or a person of indistinguishable gender. Always dragging your—“

“Wil.” The music warps, air edging dark, static, cold.

( _ If it wasn’t for our positions, if it wasn’t for the time— I would have, I was going to tell them—) _

“Always so touchy!” Wilford finally stops, his drink sloshing dangerously yet spilling not one drop. “I’d still love to, Damien. You’ve finally come around on our TV show!”

Dark opens his mouth, but only lets loose with a sigh. It’s no use, by this point. “Yes, Wil. We just had to wait for the right time. Shall we?”

Wilford is flat-footed beside him in a second, though still in his shorts, ‘martini’ in hand. “Let’s go house-hunting! I do have a list, and if any one thing is missing, we’re walking.”

Good application of the Void’s powers might solve that, if he can figure it out, but... he’ll let the house do most of the work. Wilford deserves something he’s  _ mostly _ happy with, at least.


	2. Chapter 2

Mark makes his big debut.

It isn’t on the stage, isn’t on the silver screen, as Dark may have expected. The man is an actor, always wanted to be, always had the skill and ego necessary to be successful in it.

But the world has changed. Technology advanced as tastes—and attention spans— shifted.

The Internet is a marvelous thing.

Of course Mark would turn to it. The audience he could cultivate, perfect for his need of attention, is massive. The spread, the influence— and just the right amount of anonymity, of time since his last public work, to cultivate a heroic image.

A kindhearted man from humble beginnings, doing great things and inspiring others with his passion and hard work.

It’s insidious, this careful construct, but he has a sort of begrudging respect for how well done it is.

_ Very _ begrudging.

As his new star rises, Mark makes a move. A calculated one, on his part, but foolish.

Returning home. The scene of his crime.

Back to Los Angeles.

And with all the opportunity allowed by this move, an advantageous position for his stardom, it serves doubly so for Dark.

He has a place to settle down.

He has a place to finally end things, once and for all.

But first, planning.

Planning, which requires a home.

If he can only find one.

A cabin, out in the woods.

“Really, now, it’s so small! And dreary. You know I like cozy but  _ this _ ? Oh, and who are you?”

“The Host gives his dialogue, quick but monotone, in that he is a creation of the man you call Mark in a not-dissimilar way to both Dark and Wilford. After the removal of his eyes, the Host would very much enjoy being part of the revenge scheme Dark is planning.”

“... I would appreciate that, yes.”

A townhouse, nearer the center of the city.

“Oh. More duplicates.”

“Duplicates of duplicates! And color-coded, as well, I love it!”

“I-If you’ll allow us, he m-may be the f-first to die. We have all h-human knowledge at o-our disposal.”

“Can we take the orange one, too, Dark?”

“Suh, dude, I’m Bing. What’s your whole vibe?”

“... Must we t-take the default?”

“The Host agrees, despite the supercomputers’ misgivings. After all, what is one more?”

A houseboat.

“With the lack of rain, we’ll be on the lakebed within a year. And it’s tiny.”

“Tiny-schminy! You have your spooky void thing and the Host can do whatever he wants! He can just talk!”

“The Host must say that isn’t really—“

“We aren’t good swimmers, Wilford.”

“We may be w-water-resistant, but we are n-not pleased being surrounded by it.”

“I hate to say it but Googs is right. I’ll sink like a brick, dudes, if I don’t fry everything first.”

“.... what the fuck is that?”

“Damien!”

“The Host believes he prefers— the creature has a green tail as though it belongs to a fish, but on the other end of a decidedly human torso—“

“Why does it have t-two tails? N-nothing on Earth—“

“We’re leaving.  _ Now _ .”

This goes on as Dark and Wilford continue their search. Every new house, they find some other fragment Mark left behind: a doctor, a schoolgirl ( _ girl _ , she emphasizes, and it is never questioned), a strange man covered in peanut butter, among others.

It’s more and more recruits, created and abandoned, betrayed and ready for revenge. Oddly, Dark feels a strange sort of responsibility for them— kindred spirits, lost and confused. Like he was, and Wilford, and—

Well. A few more hands never hurt, even if they need to search for larger and larger homes with each new ego.

(He struggled with what to call them, at first. Fragments, personas, clones— ego works well enough. Mark has enough ego for thirty people, and these aspects only comprise a small portion. How apt a title it is.)

When Wilford comes down to the congregation— yes, they stick together in some quite frankly ridiculous mass, but certainly  _ not _ at Dark’s prompting— from a particularly massive home, looking oddly pensive, Dark asks. “Well?”

“It’s a few things short on my list.” As if to demonstrate, Wilford unfurls a list Dark is certain was quite a few inches shorter than this an hour ago. “No studio, no gun room, no  _ fun _ room— though they’re one in the same in my experience.”

There are a few sighs from behind him. Dark nearly joins in. “Wil, we’re running out of places to look, and we can’t get every—“

“I wasn’t finished!” Wilford harrumphs, folding the list up neatly before balling it into his shirt pocket. “We can make those rooms! That’s half the fun, and there’s more than enough room, besides!”

More sighs, these of the relieved kind. Finally, a place to call—

“How are we gonna pay for it?”

Dark— and a few other egos— turn back towards the voice. Ed Edgar, one of the minor egos, in truth, shrugs.

“Well? I don’t think I can sell enough babies to get somethin’ that nice. What, one of you got somethin’ saved up? Some side business? If you’re gettin’ into the baby business, I swear—“

“If it helps,” Dr. Iplier offers, “I have my own practice.”

“And half your patients die!”

“I-if it is that much of an i-issue, our d-dealings in cryptocurrency-“

“You can’t purchase a house with ones and zeroes!”

“I dunno, bud. I got my new wheels with—“

“Enough!”

The arguing dies down in favor of surprised— in some cases, closer to panicked— stares in Dark’s direction. He takes a breath, in through his nose, and forces his aura to calm as he cracks his neck.

( _ We startled Yan _ !)

_ Look at that other poor thing over there! He’s shaking! _

As if Damien wasn’t bad enough, now the  _ conscience _ has to speak. He’d say he was better off, before, but...

Was he, really?

He has people, now. For a given definition of people.

He’ll... have to apologize later.

“We have multiple accounts, clearly,” he says, straightening his suit. “A pool of funds should get us started— if we each pitch in, we should be comfortable enough even after we purchase. How much was it, Wil? A house like this, here... what, fifteen, twenty thousand? Pricey, I know, but—“

Wilford hands him the information sheet for the house.

Dark stares at the number. “You didn’t change this, did you?”

“Nope!” Wilford grins down at him. “It’s been decades, good man, decades! Things change!”

“Clearly.” He doesn’t get headaches, but he pinches the bridge of his nose, anyway. “Alright— Edward, Google, go on up to the house with everyone, hm? Host, Wil, come with me.”

“The Host adjusts his bandages. He may need more when the day is finished, given Dark’s current plan— if not from his own power, then Wilford’s reckless gun usage.”

“Damien?” Wilford’s eyes light up. “You don’t mean...”

“Only for intimidation, Wil. Yes, you can have your gun back.”

Wilford doesn’t end up using it, nor does he need to use his aura. Host doesn’t even mutter anything.

It seems simply meeting three gentlemen who look exactly alike— and seeing several others of the same appearance trekking up behind them— is enough for the realtor to just accept whatever will get them to go away.

Several hundreds of thousands of dollars is way too much to pay for a house, anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

“Dark!”

Dark shuts his eyes. Takes a deep breath in... then out. “Yes?”

King has his arms crossed, standing in his study in all his naked, peanut-butter-coated glory. “My squirrels! The Jims have been running everywhere, and now they’re too afraid to come out!”

“Your squirrels are not my problem, King,” Dark replies, with as much patience as he can muster. Almost immediately...

( _ Really? _ )

_ He lives here, under your watch! _

He grits his teeth and tries again in the face of King’s increasingly-distraught expression. “I can’t very well tell those two to come back inside. The last time they caught some  _ scoop _ ,” he all-but sneers, “I had to patch a hole in the living room wall.”

King blinks at him. “There was a hole?”

“The hole was the entire wall.”

King nods, as if he’s been given some sage wisdom, before he says, “My squirrels?”

“.... I’ll find a place for the Jims to work. Tell them to stay hidden for now.”

King leaves behind a whiff of oak leaves, a dribble of peanut butter on the floor, and as a tendril of Dark’s aura absently cleans it up, he scribbles onto a notepad.

Less than a week in, and his list of needed changes has tripled in length. At first, it was the simple things: some of the pipes leaked, the wooden flights of stairs creaky. Some of the flooring would be much better-suited as stone or wood than carpet, and certain walls needed an update in paint— if not for chipping purposes, then for  _ aesthetics _ .

Damien never had an eye for color, really, not like Celine did. The little things, passing up from her sleeping consciousness, it seems. He resolutely does not think about the other little voice in his head.

But from moment one of their move-in day, the egos have sought to make his life ever more challenging, or complicated, at least.

Rooms to their specifics, an updated kitchen, sun rooms and galleries and workstations and on and on.

For all of his and Host’s power, it will take weeks. He doesn’t have the finest of control—

_ We all know that, don’t we? _

— and Host is unfortunately limited by his wounds, ever-bleeding and made worse by exertion beyond the narration that grants him sight.

So, all that said, perhaps his first order of business should be a medical ward. Best to be prepared for any casualties, given the ego’s collective propensity for chaos and violence. 

Less than a month in their presence and he’s been witness to more lacerations and bruises than he could possibly count. A medical ward for their one doctor— even if he is known as the Bad News Doctor for a reason— would be a smart decision.

Then, he can finally give into Wilford’s incessant demands for a gun room. Not a gun  _ range _ , as one might expect, but a  _ room _ . Solely for guns. With Yan and Bim’s proclivities, that might need to be expanded to a full armory.

He’ll work it out further as he goes. Heaven knows what they could get into before his plans could carry out in their entirety— best to be adaptable for now.

( _ We certainly know how to be adaptable! _ )

_ Adaptable? Like rewriting an essay on the fly when someone spilled their tea on it? _

A voice so deeply apologetic in between giggles, his anger heavily tempered with indulgent fondness.

He snaps his pen, and ink spills over his fingers, dribbling onto the page.

...

He doesn’t bother with the void, this time, simply wipes his hand with a handkerchief and reaches for a new pen and a new notebook.

Adaptable. He’ll have to be.

————

  1. Medical Ward



Dark respects Dr. Edward Iplier.

Well, as much as he respects any of the offshoots of Mark’s rampant ego, which can range from very little— Derek— to quite a bit— the Host.

Wilford gets his own brand of respect, cobbled together out of Celine’s feelings, Damien’s friendship, and the Entity holding them together’s begrudging tolerance of his own unnatural powers. It’s about as complicated as the man, himself.

Brief bursts of longing aside— not uncomfortable, per se, but certainly bewildering— only further complicate matters.

Edward certainly trends higher on that list, with his generally-amiable demeanor and intelligence, terminal prognoses aside, and most often stays there.

Sometimes, however...

“I don’t believe this is quite your purview, Edward.”

Edward lowers his instrument— Dark has no idea what it could be, just that it looks wicked sharp—to frown at him. “What isn’t? I’m a licensed surgeon!”

Dark, with a little twist of aura, frees the bindings pinning down a particular Jim. Immediately, he tries to dart for his camcorder, sitting off to the side. “Doctor Jim! How do you respond to accusations of malpractice?”

“It isn’t malpractice—“

“It is,” Dark interrupts. He glances at Jim, who doesn’t seem perturbed in the slightest. “You cannot perform an anatomy study on a still-living individual.”

“How else am I to understand why we can’t die?”

Dark clenches his jaw. “I’m dead. We can.”

“Undead is not the same thing,” Edward argues. He sets down the instrument, turning instead to his chest of drawers. Between a pair of undershirts, he frees a clipboard. “I’m a good doctor, but I can’t keep a grown man alive longer than a few minutes after a gunshot to his vital organs.”

“When did that happen?” Jim shoves his camera forward. Dark only has the same questions, so he allows it.

“When didn’t it?” Edward flips through the pages, as if that’s proof, enough. “We just don’t die. Something keeps us from that point, and if I can’t figure it out from simply watching, I need to do some research.”

( _ But we died. _ )

_ We can’t die. _

Dark rolls his neck, and the voices abate. “It... is certainly a conundrum,” he replies, diplomatically as he can manage. “However, I’d advise you, and everyone else, to not put that to the test if you can help it. Rather, I’ve come to offer you a place to continue your practice in  _ keeping us alive and unharmed. _ I’m sure you’d feel more at ease.”

“That won’t help my—“

“It will keep things clean and free of complaint, as well.” Dark glances to the bed, still outfitted with medical-grade restraints. It’s uncomfortable in more ways than one. “You’ll have your own space to sleep. And... whatever else.”

Edward lowers his clipboard. Glances between his bed, his chest of drawers containing half clothing and half medical necessities. Considers. “Should one of my prognoses come true—“

“We can discuss your research then,” Dark answers, smoothly. “In the meantime, your preferences? It’s your ward, after all.”

It’s small and not the best-outfitted ward in all of private practice, but it holds together well for something made of words and nothingness, minimalist and sterile but still comfortable.

Interesting, though, how the first patient in Edward’s care is— possibly, it’s hard to tell with the Jims— the exact Jim from before.

He does not end up vivisected. Probably.

————

  1. ~~Gun Room Fun Room~~ Armory



It is  _ not  _ his favorite room in the house.

Dark refuses to agree to that, no matter how much Wilford wheedles him about it.

“How could you dislike it?” Wilford puts away one firearm, pauses, then swaps it out for another one. He has no storage case he’s getting them from, they just... appear. “It has so many wonderful things! Look at this one!”

By this point, Dark is used to it. With a careful hand, he lowers the gun Wilford has up under his nose. “I can see it,” he grits out, “without also smelling it. And I never said I disliked it.”

“I think you said something like that!” Bim arranges a selection of knives off to one side. It seems to be according to blade acuity, rather than size of blade or type. Valid strategy, if strange.

“He did!” Yan hands Bim a new knife, watching carefully as he positions it on the provided rack, her eyes glowing in interest. “He said, ‘Wil, this room is unnecessary and cluttered and I don’t like it’.”

“I didn’t!”

Once, his aura would have flared. Everyone save Wilford would have taken a cautious step back. Now...

_ Don’t you dare! She’s only teasing! _

Feeling rather sour, Dark huffs over Yan’s giggles, straightening his jacket. “It is still cluttered, and I find a full room of weapons to be overkill, that’s true.”

“Is there a ‘but’, Damie?” Wilford twirls a new gun. “Or are you going to break my heart all over again?”

Wil- Wilford would be one to talk. From half the stories Dark’s heard of his escapades, both before and after the incident—

“I’m not against you arming yourselves. We’ll need it later, in any case.” For a moment, before he continues, he looks over the three in the room with him. Yes, they’re watching, awaiting his answer, but—

( _ They look happy, don’t they? _ )

It seems as much, yes. They’re... pleased with his work. Pleased to have a space for their interests, as dangerous as those interests may be.

_ At least we have a medical ward, now. _

“You’re enjoying yourselves,” he finishes, quietly. “I don’t dislike it.”

He isn’t sure how people could honest-to-goodness have stars in their eyes, but Yan and Wilford somehow both manage it.

Bim’s damn close, too.

————

  1. Theatre Room



Dark stares down at his list.

Theatre room.

It’s something  _ he’d  _ enjoy, isn’t it? Pompous, overstated excess and luxury— if the concept had existed nearly a century ago, Dark has not a single doubt that he’d have one installed.

Likely to watch and perform all of his own creations.

( _ He was always so excited to show us something new he worked on. He liked to share, once. _ )

_ Once. He could be like that again— we don’t have to— _

With a vicious slash of his pen, Dark crosses out the suggestion.

————

  1. Kitchen



He was never much of a cook.

Damien wasn’t, Celine wasn’t— the Entity holding them together certainly never touched a stove.

The hands he sees on occasion, when his body jitters, when he deigns to sleep instead of power through— he doesn’t need it, but it can help his temper— though...

Smaller than his, a different shape. A little more confident, meals with odd recipes he wouldn’t have imagined, born of necessity rather than luxury.

Then, they are his, gray-scale but familiar all the same.

It’s uncomfortable. He doesn’t try to sleep often.

The Egos need to eat, though, and with the sheer volume of mouths to feed, it needs to be up to the task.

Ovens, more than one. He draws the line at three and outright growls at the— possibly teasing, possibly not— suggestion of five.

A large refrigerator and freezer. After consideration, a smaller second one. Back in his day it was little more than a glorified cabinet filled with ice, so having two much more advanced ones feels as a novelty.

Counter space, and cabinets, full of the proper equipment to cook whatever comes to mind.

There is one— one— cupboard he allows for those asinine single-use gadgets. They seem to amuse the grand majority of the... less serious Egos. Including Wilford.

The man hates boiled eggs, and yet the blasted egg cups remain.

For the most part, meals are haphazard. People will come in and make something for themselves, perhaps leave some behind as a kindness if they don’t eat it all, but it’s never a group effort.

Thankfully, everyone can at least not burn what they’re cooking.

Once, in a fit of nostalgia— not of his own accord, but Damien, always Damien— Dark takes to the kitchen, himself.

It hurts his shredded stomach to eat, but it isn’t impossible, and he enjoys the experience, otherwise. He feels... normal. For once.

In the midst of browning ground beef, he glances up to find Bim watching with interest. “Bim?”

“What’s on the menu?” Bim leans in closer, considering the contents of the pan. “Anything... in particular?”

Ah. “I don’t think this is quite to your particular tastes,” Dark says, not quite as dry as intended, “but you may enjoy it, anyway. I won’t finish it.”

Bim hums, but if he’s disappointed that it won’t meet his preferred diet, it doesn’t show. “Do you want help?”

“Help?”

“It’ll go faster, won’t it?” Bim removes his jacket, going about rolling up his sleeves just as Dark has. “I have a show to run and I can’t on an empty stomach. It just won’t do, Dark, you understand.”

( _ We worked long hours on an empty stomach before _ .)

_ If he’s hungry... you wouldn’t want to be wasteful, and he’s offering, too. _

Dark tilts his head in the direction of the fridge. It makes his neck creak, and he adjusts it with a grunt. “Start shredding cabbage, mind your fingers.”

A few minutes later—

“What’s that?”

Silver, with his massive gloves. “It’s my dinner. And Bim’s, I suppose.”

“Oh! That’s kind of you, Dark!” He seems far too proud and it irks him. “Well, if you need any help getting it finished—“

Dark raises an eyebrow. “Can you?”

With the mask, it’s hard to tell Silver’s actual expression— how does he have a field of view with it, either? “I’m a superhero. What is that but a professional helper?”

“I think he means your gloves, Silver,” Bim calls from his mound of cabbage.

“What about them?”

Dark just puts him on rice duty.

The meal is supposed to be simple. It’s what things  _ they  _ could afford as a poor college student with the barest equipment, cheap but filling and several servings in one cooking session.

( _ We could have given them better meals, but they were so stubborn— _ )

But, by the time it’s finished, he has several other pairs of hands working alongside him. The constituent ingredients, but doubled, now, elbow-to-elbow and cooking companionably.

The less-culinarily-inclined circle the table, virtually unused from its creation, setting out plates and silverware.

It’s...

It’s nice.

Really nice.

They don’t leap into group meals from that point, but it becomes more common. If he doesn’t initiate, he’s asked— insistently— to join.

More often than not...

_ For them! _

He does.

————

  1. Bedrooms



“We c-cannot continue like this.”

As the room was pleasantly quiet prior to Google’s— Blue, because color is easier and they haven’t given him names other than Google— voice, it at least makes Dark look up from his work. “I’m sorry?”

Blue only frowns down at him. Granted, that’s his general disposition. “You placed all of u-us into o-one room. This is unacceptable.”

“We don’t really have a surplus of rooms,” Dark explains. “Besides, all you four need are—“

“Five.”

“Five?” Red, Yellow, Blue, Green... “Did you create another?”

Blue’s frown intensifies, newly-edged with disgust. “The default. Bing.”

Ah, of course. Why are there so many supercomputer androids in this house, again? “Five, then. You don’t exactly need to sleep to recharge. You don’t have bodily functions. Do you need different rooms?”

Before Blue can say another word...

_ Everyone needs their own space! Don’t be so callous! _

( _ It’s true— sharing an office was bad enough, and we had somewhere private to go, as well. _ )

He sighs. “No, no, you’re... you’re right. Four more rooms will take time, however.”

“I s-suppose we can be p-patient.” Blue’s logo flashes, and a holographic screen rises to float before his chest. “I do h-have some specifications, in the m-meantime.”

The screen scrolls, filled both with pictures and text. Resigned, Dark reaches for his notes. “Alright. What would you like?”

As it turns out, the Googles are all different.

Really different.

Beyond layout, they want colors he wouldn’t have expected, ones beyond their designations. One wishes for a workbench. Another wants an actual bed to recharge in. One just wants a backyard view.

They all want to be close to the armory, worryingly enough.

Bing wants a closet. “I gotta look fresh, dude, can’t do that with wrinkles. And, like, a place to hang my wheels would be cool. A ramp, maybe?”

He doesn’t get a ramp.

It would be the end of it, if Bing didn’t brag about his new room.

At dinner.

With everyone there.

Dark is sure, if they didn’t have some mutual respect, Edward would murder him for the transfusions the Host will need.

Rewriting reality is difficult, to put it lightly.

Different bed styles, different layouts, different hobby items. Colors and aesthetics and placements—

“No, you cannot all be right next to the armory!”

“Can I sleep in the armory?”

“No, Wil.”

“I think fluff and knives capture my aesthetic perfectly, actually.”

To save himself the stress of further creation, Dark simply slips into the void for his personal space. If he feels like sleeping, a bed can just appear. Otherwise, a chair, a desk— easy and ever-changing.

He makes one on his own, though. Practice, perhaps, or as some insurance for any further fragment joining them.

It has a big bed, a bright and sunny window, a large desk. Simple, but comfortable, just the right shade of—

( _ They’d love this room. _ )

He looks it over.

They liked reading in the sun. They were always hard at work, bent over their desk. When they weren’t, they treasured a good, long nap.

He clenches his jaw.

_ Don’t ruin it for this! It’s still a nice room. Neutral enough. _

He leaves it as it is. After everything, he can’t really bear to change it.

————

  1. Sun Room



“Oh, a solarium.”

Eric blinks at him, confused. “Uh, a, uh... a what?”

“A solarium.” Dark gestures towards the notes in his hand. “You could have just said that, I’d understand.”

“I’m- I don’t think-“ His fingers twist further in his handkerchief. “I didn’t- didn’t know it was called, um, a solarium.”

At Dark’s further confused stare, his fidgeting worsens. “S- uh, solarium is cool, though. We can call it that.”

It’s better than  _ sun room _ . The way language changes is confusing and frustrating at the best of times. 

_ Easy, now, he’s anxious. Gentle. _

“In any case, this shouldn’t be difficult. Is there any reason in particular? You don’t strike me as the type.”

“Um.” Eric glances around the room, seemingly unable to look him in the eye any longer. “They, uh— I heard it’s, um, good for you. To get sun. But if I go outside, my dad t- uh, tells— asks me to help him? But inside, uh... yeah. And I can try plants again.”

That... does sound quite soothing. Besides, he doesn’t need the conscience to convince him to vex Derek at every possible turn. He’s insufferable even before his treatment of Eric.

He’s not a complete villain.

“A solarium with plants.” Dark nods, giving as close to a smile as he ever manages. “It will be done.”

It’s lovely, once finished. Glass ceilings and walls, comfortable and light furniture, an array of hardy and easy to care for plants in corners and on shelves and hanging down from the rafters.

When Eric first enters, the change is immediate and noticeable: his shoulders lower, his fidgeting slows, and the tight lines of his face slowly ease into something almost hopeful.

Unfortunately, when Dark attempts the supposed therapeutic properties of the room...

The air grows cold, thick, and static-filled. The plants wilt when he grows close.

He can’t feel the sun on his skin even outside.

Why would this room be any different?

Rather, he enjoys it vicariously.

At Eric’s first real bloom, he sincerely congratulates him with another plant.

_ He can handle it, and he’ll appreciate it.  _

It dies, but Eric isn’t as upset as he might have feared. Progress is progress.

————

  1. Repairs



He strips the paint and wallpaper, himself.

For something so delicate...

( _ What if we break something else? _ )

Well, it’s best to use his hands. His aura can be for the bigger things— it’s powerful, not fine control.

Carpeting, next— ripped right up out of the floor, jacket cast aside and sleeves rolled up. He’s grown in strength but it’s a stubborn thing.

_ You’d know all about stubborn things. _

He doesn’t know enough for plumbing or masonry or carpentry, not to practice with his own hands

Ask him of fencing, of piano, of fortune telling, of chess, perhaps. Perhaps he could do those as well as his constituent parts ever could. Muscle memory.

( _ Though they aren’t— _ )

_ — your muscles. _

He took care of some, for the new public rooms and the bedrooms, but the common areas must also be dealt with.

For those, he enlists the Host.

“Dark understands that the Host will not be able to speak with him as he works, given the very nature of his power. Correct?”

“I am aware,” Dark replies. He’s given up staring at the pipes under the bathroom sink, instead turning to set out gauze. They may have a ward, but injury can strike anywhere— there’s a first-aid kit in nearly every room of the house. “Someone must keep you from bleeding out.”

“The Host can’t help his amusement, notifying Dark that the mansion holds a skilled doctor more than willing to watch over the Host as he works.”

Dark frowns, mildly annoyed at the smirk on the Host’s face. “Are you calling me unnecessary?”

“The Host would never imply such a thing. Rather, as he prepares his words to commence with repairs, the Host would instead call Dark instrumental to our gathering. A binding force, and one for good, at that.”

Following his statement— and there’s a finality to his words, anyway— the Host immediately begins muttering to himself.

As the pipes reorder themselves...

_ One for good. Didn’t you hear him? You could be this, instead. You can let it go. _

_ You can have a family. You always wanted a family. _

( _ We had one. We wanted one, with everyone, with— _ )

A family. Honestly.

He has too much to do than to consider his band of fragments a real family, much less call them a replacement.

That said... he does feel better. More settled.

Less angry.

Though how much is the influence of those he’s surrounded himself with, and how much is the influence of the voices in his head, remains to be seen.

“The Host would appreciate the gauze Dark has laid out for him, as his powers—“

Dark shakes out of his thoughts, passing over the long swathes. As the Host begins to unwind, he looks away. “Well?”

“The Host puts aside his soiled bandages. Winding the new ones around his eyes, he explains that all repairs are accounted for.

“Before Dark can ask anything further, the Host wants to inquire about something in particular: something he has noticed in Dark, but never brought up for fear of upsetting him in some way.”

“What is that?” Dark rolls his neck. It wasn’t drifting, but it seems to help his irritation to do something. “If it isn’t about the repairs—“

“It is not, the Host responds, nor does he believe Dark believes so. Finishing tying up his bandages, the Host continues, this is about the voice you hear. Not the man you were, but something new. The conscience, as Dark puts it.”

The static thickens, grows louder around him. “I don’t want to talk about it, Host.”

“It does no good to lie to the Host. He knows and sees much, but it takes no power to see the change in you. It takes no power to understand what is bothering you. As a friend, the Host believes it best to ask. And, possibly, share what he knows.”

“And what do you know?”

“It is not you. That voice.”

Dark doesn’t make a habit of rolling his eyes, but he can’t help himself in this case. “They’re  _ all  _ mine, in some way. Just because it sounds and acts different—“

“The Host interrupts to say, you don’t understand. The man, the one with the name Damien, is you. Your own thoughts are you. This conscience reeks of magic, and it  _ is not you. _ ”

The conversation continues to haunt him, even later, when he’s playing mediator between four people and a camera.

The conscience isn’t him. Not some fragment born of guilt and Damien, taking a form he’s all-but guaranteed to listen to.

It’s something else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @fgfluidity on tumblr


	4. Chapter 4

The matter of the studio needs to be settled, once and for all.

Dark decides this after the fifth straight argument over the camera. Jim— one of them, there’s no telling them apart— has a death grip on the thing, his fellow Jim taking up the bickering in his stead.

“We need it! There are scoops everywhere, and the people need to know!”

Bim, in a hideously-sequined and garish suit, scoffs. “What could they need to know? About the  _ demons _ ? There are only so many times you can run a story on Dark!”

Dark frowns. Well, turns closer to mild umbrage than annoyance. A demon?

( _ At this point? We kind of—) _

_ No! You’re a good person, you aren’t a demon! You aren’t and you never have been! _

... Surprising. Even Damien remains quiet at the shock of the conscience firing back so sharply. 

So often, both voices form a chorus, one soft, one deep, both in harmony. They think just alike, a combined force to argue with him, to push him, form a running commentary that has changed him, however slowly.

The voices of two good people, who once were so close that their becoming one seemed inevitable. Expected. Anticipated.

Interesting, then, and nearly disquieting, to find them at odds over a mild insult, at best.

“Damien!”

Dark rises from his reverie to find all four men looking at him, each with varying degrees of indignation, impatience, and anger in their expressions. “Yes, Wilford?”

Wilford crosses his arms. “You aren’t even paying attention!”

“My apologies. I got...” He rolls his neck, for once uncomfortable at the continued silence in his head. “Distracted. By all means.”

“Warfstache Tonight!™ is on a tight schedule and I need this camera more than any of these—“

“Enough about your show!” Bim strides forward towards the camera-carrying Jim. “People want entertainment! Showmanship! My new game show is far more important than whatever drivel you have planned!”

Wilford gasps, scandalized.

“You wanna talk about importance? What about hard-hitting investigative journalism?” The bickering Jim, tugging his companion back by his elbow, glances towards Wilford, as if finally realizing his presence. Amazing how his sugar-and-gunpowder aura could ever be  _ ignored _ . “That  _ doesn’t _ kill people!”

“Your hands aren’t clean! I know you planned that scheme all those years ago— insidious! Devilish!” Wilford strokes his mustache thoughtfully. “Or— no, no, that didn’t happen here, never mind, carry on.”

More of his cryptic nonsense. Dark has never been able to make much sense of it, though it sounds like...

Clairvoyance, of some kind. 

Or the ramblings of a man driven mad.

Either way, Dark takes the brief moment of bafflement from the other three men to swoop in and take the camera. A touch of aura and quick slip through the void and he has it on the other side of the room, channeling his best displeased countenance.

“My camera!”

“If you can’t organize a schedule, it’ll be no one’s camera,” Dark growls. “I’ve had enough of this. Every day you fight over the one we have, and then over filming space, and then over every other last aspect of your production!

“I agreed to your ideas, Wil, because I respect you. As it is, though, not only will they not come to fruition, but all of the other plans are falling through, as well.” He exhales, sharply, through his nose. “I don’t have a second to work because I’m too busy—“

_ Calm down! Please. That’s enough, they get the point. _

He clenches his jaw. Damn whatever hideous thing this voice came from.

“We can’t continue your projects like this,” he continues, quieter. “They’re too disruptive and complex to create from one little office. We’ll need to find a studio.”

The other four turn to each other, considering though not displeased. Bim glances over at him. “Find? Couldn’t you create a studio for us? You’ve been practicing with all of these upgrades.”

“Only if you’d want Host’s blood on your hands.” Dark’s mouth twists sardonically. “Poor choice of words for you. And the larger the space, the less detailed I can make it, and the more power it takes. We didn’t make this house, after all.”

Wilford lights up. “Oh, if you need more of—“

“No.”

“But I can—“

“ _ No _ .”

“I can help you!”

Dark grimaces at the arm around his shoulder. Physical touch is so often uncomfortable, with his low body temperature, and it doesn’t help that Wilford runs even hotter than normal.

_ Are you going to stop him? _

... No. He won’t. “You can work on your part of the studio,” he grumbles. “But within reason, Wil. Function over form.”

“Boring, but I’ll take it!” Wilford squeezes him, once, powerfully, before he bounces away again.

“Spooky Jim-“

Dark growls.

“Spooky Jim,” one of the Jims repeats, completely unbothered by Dark’s attempts at discouragement, “do you have plans for our sections of the studio?”

“I have plans for mine!” Bim claps his hands once, grinning. “I know you’ll make it exactly to my request! You always do.”

A sneer crosses Dark’s face. “For all of the custom work I do for you all, I should be paid.”

“Executive producer credit?”

“Are you really offering exposure in exchange for my work?”

One of the Jims scribbles into a notebook. “Popular game show host offers exposure instead of payment— this is the story we were looking for, Jim!”

It might be rude—

_ You know better, answer their questions! _

— but Dark ignores the voice in favor of disappearing into the void. It can complain all it wants, but  _ it _ doesn’t have to deal with the inanity of the arguments.

He needs the peace and quiet to start his real estate search.

Again.

————

As he had previously, Dark takes Host and Wilford along with him. Even with the minor increased revenue from their haphazard television production, it isn’t quite enough to rent a studio of the caliber they require, much less purchase.

Money is tight and they have the power to change that. Quite literally.

_ You can’t keep doing this. Why don’t you just ask Host to fill your coffers? _

_ (Inflation would be an issue if we kept that up, my dear.) _

Oh, yes, and Damien’s new attachment doesn’t make matters any easier. 

Just because it sounds like them, says what they would say, doesn’t make it them. It isn’t them.

How pathetic, really. His inner voice transferring his affections to a different inner voice, because it sounds like his once-crush.

He’d go to therapy, but no therapist on Earth could unpack all of his problems. Or understand them.

Might be best to simply throw out the entire suitcase.

At any rate—

“You have to pay for rental space.”

This particular agent is more annoyed than intimidated.

“We have the funds,” Dark replies, smoothly— because they do, but not much extra beyond— “and we can pay you. I just hope we may discuss the contract first.”

She  _ scowls _ , really, scowls. “You said that a few days ago. You internet people are all the same— you think you’re above any consequences, like you’re special. I said it before and I’ll say it again: pay for the space, or get out!”

Dark, bewildered, looks over his shoulder towards the Host and Wilford. Host mutters to himself, quiet enough that Dark can’t hear, but Wilford looks just as baffled. “We... haven’t been here before.”

“You think I don’t recognize your face?” She points at him. “What are the odds his identical... brothers? Would show up? And have no idea? No, I don’t buy it. It’s not a good trick and it won’t work. Not this many people have the same face.”

Oh, if only she knew. “Madam, I can assure you that we haven’t been anywhere near this building, before—“

“The Host speaks up, out of curiosity. Would you perhaps know this man’s name? Humor us, he adds, when she grimaces.”

The woman sighs, disgruntled. “Something like... I don’t know, you used your stupid YouTube name, for the most part. Mark-something.”

_ Mark _ .

A pulse of his aura confirms this— faint though it might be, Mark’s stench lingers under all of the other presences within the building.

He’s been here. He’s close. Close enough to work.

Close enough to find.

“Host. Wilford.” He straightens his jacket. “Take care of the rest of this transaction. I’ll be back.”

“What are you-“

He vanishes into the void.

It’s somewhat easier to follow in this medium, stronger and more noticeable. It helps that his presence is as big and ostentatious as his ego, a neon sign desperate to be seen through the fog.

The process is still somewhat difficult. Los Angeles is a large city, to put it mildly, with such variety and quantity of people as to throw him off every now and then.

After all, Mark isn’t the only big ego in L.A.

But.

But.

He finds it. A home, further from the city center, massive and modern and  _ he’s there. _

Mark is there.

Modernized to fit in, with his glasses, his shorter hair, but it is unmistakable.

He’s shouting at a computer, at a camera. At the game on his screen.

Recording.

Dark smiles, sharp.

_ You can’t kill him, please, please, don’t do this! Leave him be, let it go! _

_ (They—) _

His anger versus his conscience. Bold of Damien to stand up to it.

He finds he isn’t quite so bold.

Killing Mark might be out of the question— for now— but... 

Putting a healthy amount of fear into your enemy isn’t a poor strategy.

He takes post in a corner, only just visible through the shadows, and lets his aura spread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @fgfluidity on tumblr!


	5. Chapter 5

Messing with Mark is so satisfying.

Dark isn’t sure whether or not Mark understands that it’s him, the villain he wanted and created finally come back to haunt him; if he’s aware, he’s every bit the actor he always was.

He grows twitchy when the aura fills his recording room, shivers and looks into the corners, already-vacated by a quick hop into the void. As an entertainer, he plays it up for the audience’s sake; he still double checks when the camera is off.

It seems his aura has an adverse effect on technology. If he shows up during a recording— a favorite, really— Mark’s frustration at corrupted footage, glitching games and hardware, is nearly as sweet as the anxiety.

He always hated redoing things. Even the most minor of setbacks often triggered some kind of dramatic fit, and this is no exception.

His next takes are so short-tempered.

Sometimes, when Mark isn’t at the computer, when he’s feeling particularly devious and petty, Dark takes the controls.

Plays a horror game. Plays an innocuous game.

Plays up just how not-Mark he is, allows his aura and undead state to intensify his stares, his sharp smiles, his ability to remain motionless.

Who needs visual effects when the power to warp reality is at your fingertips?

He isn’t good at games, necessarily. He’s joined the occasional round in the manor in the name of companionship and to stop the whining when he refuses, but he’s nowhere near skilled.

That doesn’t matter.

What matters is the videos he uploads make Mark uneasy. They make his viewers uneasy.

There are questions and fear and concern, and Mark attempts to assuage their worries.

He’s just playing tricks on them.

He’s just having his fun.

This person you think exists, this Darkiplier— he isn’t sure whether to be impressed at the accuracy of the first half or supremely offended at the latter— is just something you made up.

Nothing to see here.

Little of it works.

Granted, most believe it to be a bit, but it’s incessant and impossible to stop with words or actions. The idea of Darkiplier has caught and spread like wildfire, and the more he’s asked, the more agitated Mark grows.

It’s an interesting thing, though, that he feels all the stronger for it.

Dark’s plan is to kill Mark eventually, yes, but this is fun in itself.

He can’t do this irritation often, though. 

They got the studio, thankfully despite his immediate and surprising departure. Wilford’s show seems to be the biggest hit thus far, with his cheerful and eccentric personality, but all is going well.

Dark’s oversight is necessary to keep it running as smoothly as it does, however.

Casualties and damages go down when he’s around, is the thing. God knows lawyer fees are a bitch, and they may be pulling in more money, but not enough to stay in the black if they have to pay that much.

Lawyers aren’t swayed by him.

_ (Were they ever? They never let us get away with anything.) _

He’d prefer even fewer incidents, if he can help it, but he can only manage so much at once. God, but he needs another producer.

He takes out that stress on Mark, and things go well.

Once, though, he’s careless.

Too brave, from all of his successes. Cocky and enjoying Mark’s distress.

Mark turns quickly, faster than he can slip away. 

His eyes widen, and he begins to shake, and he screams. “No, no, please—“ as the cold, dark static creeps around him. A free hand, in a panic, scrambles for the surface of his desk, as if to find some weapon. His fingers brush the keyboard.

And he hits a button.

And immediately relaxes.

An actor to the end.

“Damien,” he all-but purrs, a grin crossing his face. “It’s been so, so long! How have you been?”

“Thriving,” Dark intones, dryly. He can say one thing for Mark: he can’t tell if this easy confidence is born of his fear or born of his knowledge. Either way, it’s convincing, if irritating. “No thanks to you.”

Mark huffs, all false indignation. “I gave you an opportunity for a big, big role, and this is how you repay me?”

He sits up, rises from his seat. “I should thank you, though, actually. All of your little machinations—“ and Mark says this mockingly, lifting his hands to wiggle, “— have actually helped me out. People love a good story— what did I tell you? You’re such a good villain.”

“Stories end.” Dark rolls his neck. It’s the only thing keeping him from snapping Mark’s. “How’d you find your mirror, snake?”

To his surprise, Mark only grins wider. “I didn’t,” he replies, “but I didn’t need to. I got what I needed. Just had to be patient.”

Discomfort swirls in his gut. In an effort to keep it under wraps, Dark says, “So you bought a few new ones of your own. I never thought you’d take my advice, but—“

“Oh, come, now. Do you really think I just wanted a mirror?” Mark scoffs, crossing his arms. “A story is not complete with a Hero and a Villain. I needed more. It has to be the best, and I think—“

He tilts his head to the side, as if listening, and his smile widens ever further. “I think I have the perfect cast.”

There are steps outside. A knock on the door. Tentative little taps, a pattern that he remembers.

His entire body freezes, the sound spreading ice through his veins. No. No, it couldn’t possibly be— and anyone else shouldn’t see him.

The voice in his head—

_ what- _

His head spins as the door pushes inward.

Someone steps through, eyes downcast, focused on a phone.

Modern clothing. Slightly different hair.

Same body shape. Same face, same coloring.

_ (They’re— they’re alive!) _

His ears ring, and the DA stumbles, face twisting in confusion, in discomfort.

He hurts.

He hurts. He is everywhere and nowhere and he  _ hurts _ .

He just catches Mark’s concerned face, hands reaching out for the DA as if to catch them, before he enters the void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @fgfluidity on tumblr!


	6. Chapter 6

He hurts.

The void is here. It is cold and dark and everywhere.

He is everywhere.

A wash of color and tendril and static, pain through his stolen body, flickering a different shape, size, color.

He screams as he goes from one direction into another, as he  _ splits _ .

_ They’re still alive! _

_ Da- Damien.. Damien-- what- _

_ Celine? _

_ What have you done? _

_ How are you awake? _

_ We’re split-- I think you woke me. _

_ How-- _

_ It doesn’t matter. Damien, what’s going on? _

_ They’re alive, Celine. They’re alive and he has them. _

_ What? _

_ The DA. The DA, my-- they’re alive, again, somehow. With Mark. I don’t know what-- _

_ He’s still-- You have to get rid of him. _

_ It’s not so simple, Celine! _

_ Why isn’t it? Go up to the man and cut his heart out! _

_ I can’t! There’s-- it won’t let me. _

_ What? _

_ This voice-- it’s their voice, it’s them, in my head. _

_ You said they were alive. We pushed them out, even if they weren’t. _

_ I know that. I still hear them. I know it’s them! _

_ Are you sure it isn’t just-- _

_ Celine! _

_ What do you want me to do about it, Damien? I can’t take over-- hell, I’m barely sure how I’m awake enough to talk right now! _

_ I don’t know! It’s just-- it’s them, I have to get them out of here, away from him. _

_ You have to get that voice out of your head. _

_ One thing at a time, Celine! _

_ I’m tired… I don’t think I can keep this up. _

_ I-- I don’t blame you. You can go back to sleep. _

_ Take care of it, Damien. Do what we said we would. _

_ … I will. Rest well. _

_ … _

_ Could I really? _

_ Are you here? _

_ … _

_ No, why would you be? _

_ … I- _

He shivers, as he comes back to himself. Every part of him aches-- most notably, his neck and his stomach.

The void feels even colder.

He has work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @fgfluidity on tumblr!


	7. Chapter 7

They are exactly the same.

It’s what Dark notices, watching from the shadows. He doesn’t dare to be as bold in his scares, anymore, not now that Mark realizes he’s there.

Mark hardly seemed a bit frightened of him, so what would be the point in wasting his energy?

What he does, however, for the next several, long weeks, is watch.

The DA’s tastes are the same. They always enjoyed sweaters, regardless of the weather. Their preferred drink was just-sweet-enough tea, which was a remarkable amount of sugar for his own, more bitter palate. They liked records of swing music, crackling on a phonograph, all uncoordinated bouncing and cheer when just the right song came on.

Swap the records for clear, if compressed, if remastered, digital recordings, and—

They dance the same.

They style their hair the same.

They smile the same.

( _ Don’t you remember? Don’t you see? Look at me, please! _ )

Dark doesn’t voice Damien’s pleas. Their last parting was… not necessarily amicable. Nor the one before that. With their newfound freedom, they might make good on their threats.

_ Whose fault is that? _

Though the voice didn’t appear in the void— he still can’t explain what happened there, can’t explain the feeling of being ripped apart, of pain without physicality, of Celine— it has been all-too-present Upside.

If his gut didn’t already burn, sharp pain in his twisted esophagus, he might say he’s choking on guilt. As it is, it’s close enough.

The interesting thing, though…

“Hey, get in here!”

Dark bristles, curls himself further into the shadows at the sound of Mark’s voice.

The DA shuffles in with a camcorder in their hands, a little uncertain. They quirk an eyebrow at Mark, who plops down on the couch with a whiteboard.

“Filming?” He asks, and when they raise up the camcorder with a little wiggle, “Don’t ruin the framing! Just get back in position.”

They roll their eyes. Mark doesn’t seem to notice.

“Okay, don’t look,” he warns, and begins to scribble on the board.

God, he’s a hideous artist.

Though he  _ is _ correct about Bakersfield.

Purchasing a car, specifically to drive four hours to a chain restaurant. The whole plan is ridiculous, unnecessary, a frivolity.

( _ Aren’t all of his plans? _ )

Dark can’t help but smirk at that. Finally, Damien’s getting on board.

The van he ends up buying is suspicious, to say the least. Big, white, windowless— what would a van need with garish wood paneling?

On the  _ inside _ ?

The point is, throughout this asinine plan, the DA doesn’t say a word. They don’t open their mouth.

They communicate entirely through gesture and facial expression. 

(As a sidebar, he nearly splits again at the brief physical affection of fistbumps, the warm little smile they exchange after the money changes hands and they drive away.

The false thanks that comes from Mark only angers him further, as the DA just grows bashful.

How could they do this?

How could they believe him?)

To Mark, to the people they meet, everyone and everything.

This continues even after the camera turns off. “You wanna get that edited for me?”

They sigh, a short little huff through their nose, give him a long-suffering sort of look.

“Hey, I’m a busy man!” He waves a hand, gesturing toward some indistinct and indiscernible Something in another direction. “I have my writing, my game videos, my skits— that you  _ also _ said you’d help with, by the way. I can’t edit every last thing, myself!”

Their nose wrinkles— Damien has  _ so _ many thoughts on that particular feature, the soft-heart— in frustration, and they gesture in the same direction.

“Oh, you don’t edit  _ everything _ ,” Mark scoffs. “Just most of it!”

At their continued consternation— stubborn, so damn  _ stubborn _ — he rolls his eyes with a groan. “Just this one and I’ll get it next time. Happy?”

The DA raises one fist, then each finger slowly and individually. One, two, three, four— which they push at Mark as if in emphasis.

“What? You’ll do four more? If you insist!”

Dark, being the opposite of a fool, would guess that to mean ‘you said that the last four times.’

( _ That isn’t very fair, is it? _ )

_ Oh, what is his problem? _

The DA’s face crumples a little, suddenly more confused than irritated, and Mark takes the opening.

“Hey, now,” he says, all affected softness and care. “Hey, I was only teasing. You do this one, I’ll handle the next ones. Cross my heart, if you want.”

Dark would be glad to take the shot, if he marked it correctly. As it is, it simply looks like he’s caressing his own chest.

Egotist  _ would _ .

“You do such great work for me, you know?” Mark is so soothing, so gentle— so  _ practiced _ . “You know I couldn’t do this without you, buddy.”

They’d never fall for such blatant flattery, back then. They were sharp as a tack and wiser to the ways of criminals—  _ monsters _ — that you’d expect at first glance. They knew better.

Now…

Now, they soften, give Mark a begrudgingly fond little smile.

Mark must notice as the shadows flare, outside of the DA’s view, because his own smile quirks up just a bit more crooked, a bit more wicked. “Let’s get to work,” he says, “and then we can go get some dinner, you and me. Okay?”

Dark could swear he sees that smile grow again, but he only has a fraction of a second between Mark’s hand squeezing their shoulder and the pain of fragmenting into the void.

————

_ Damien… _

_ He- _

_ I know! I know he does. Keep a hold of yourself and you won’t have to worry about it. _

————

He makes them sleep in the van.

The sight of them curled on the uncomfortable-looking ‘bed’ squeezed into the back of the van, sweat beading on their forehead and dampening their clothes, is near enough to make him split in itself. The world outside is blazing hot, heat blurring the air above the pavement, and though he feels little but cold in his stretch of the void, he can just imagine the unbearable heat within the walls of this oven.

It only gets worse when Mark smacks their face to wake them.

( _ He’ll lose his damn hand! _ )

Well. Perhaps his temper didn’t  _ entirely _ come from Celine.

It’s all he can do not to leap forward out of the shadows when, after Mark asks why they’re even in this van to begin with, the DA with furrowed brow jabs a finger directly at him.

_ It isn’t safe! Why would he do this to- _

Mark ignores it in favor of his whiteboard.

As the DA cradles their cheek, slightly more annoyed than hurt at the insult of being struck, Mark continues on with his asinine plans, an obnoxious rumble Dark can tune out with little enough effort.

At least they have a bottle of water to sip from.

And at least they aim to get proper cooling for the blasted thing. If his— if the DA  _ must _ be in here it should at least be bearable.

For a given quality of bearable.

They’re less than a dog in Mark’s eyes, it seems, as the dog— Chica, and how  _ interesting _ that she looks  _ just _ like the hellhound at the manor— obtains a bed and pride of place before the newly-functioning air conditioner.

The other seat is taken up by some— some  _ lackey _ .

( _ Now, that is hardly polite! I’m sure she’s a lovely young woman. _ )

_ She is! I know- _

She associates with Mark willingly. An accomplice in his schemes gets no quarter from him.

The DA is… an exception. Mitigating circumstances.

————

_ Well, we can take care of her, too. _

_ Celine! _

————

The lackey is back.

Taking post with him, albeit unknowingly, in the shade of a makeshift hut. Waiting.

All part of Mark’s schemes, of course. What did he expect?

_ They’re friends! _

( _ He may have asked her to meet with him but that doesn’t- _ )

No. He knows better.

And he just stops a smug smile, directed inwardly at his two voices of— of  _ nonsense _ , as Mark and the DA enter.

The DA has a camera in their hand.

Typical. Further forced labor.

…

( _ They look so happy here. _ )

Dark shifts uncomfortably, slipping through to the next shadow as the group moves on. Damien’s wistful again, caught up in the glow of the sun on their hair, rivaled only by their smile as they rush with Mark from patch to patch of bright pumpkins. He doesn’t like it.

Wistful Damien forgets their purpose. Wistful Damien forgets that the only reason the DA is here to be happy is through deception, Mark’s selfish, evil machinations.

False happiness in a gilded cage.

Not his—

Not Damien’s—

How apropos. Cage.

He needs to warp away at the face they make at the sight of the petting zoo. For all that he may be able to (somewhat) tune out Damien’s musings, he’d never be able to counter Damien falling to pieces.

Or tolerate.

… Neither can Mark, it seems, as he proffers tickets with a smile.

_ He really does care, you know. _

Ha, he’ll believe it when he sees it.

Once Mark’s finished with his celebrity moment, anyway.

Dark rolls his eyes so hard he’s sure he sprained something. If only his  _ fans _ knew of his treachery.

Who is he kidding— they’d probably love him all the more.

The group picks up pumpkins as they go, loading them into a cart— of course— pulled by the DA. The patch is rather large, and one can only hold several pumpkins of average weight for so long.

“I’ll get this one for me— you know, because I’m short?”

Dark grits his teeth.

( _ I’m not short! We were all taller than average if I recall correctly, Marcus!) _

Oh, full first name. Incensed Damien is  _ fun _ .

_ Wait, is he— _

The conscience nudges at him, again and again, until Dark follows its urging and he  _ looks  _ at Mark.

… Oh, this is wonderful.

He’s limping.

Weeks and weeks of wheelchairs, crutches, physical therapy. Years of a cane.

Nearly a century of being stolen goods.

Not only does he get Damien’s height, Damien’s face— but Damien’s weaknesses, as well.

( _ Just like we got- _ )

He’ll just file that away for now. For future reference.

————

_ So? _

_ …. _

_ Oh my god, Damien. That is not the important part here. _

_ He shouldn’t call them— _

_ It’s objective! And not important! Stop being jealous and- _

_ Celine? _

_ Actually, no, channel that. Keep being jealous. _

————

They get a small refrigerator and a television for the van.

Which are… somehow important for a four hour drive. Where Mark will be driving.

Nonsense, as per usual.

_ It’ll actually be nice to have. Something to do, a place to put food. _

… The conscience makes a point, even if the only food he’s seen in this van in days is the kindly-donated bag of guavas currently resting beside the minifridge.

( _ They’ll have some creature comforts. _ )

At the very least.

Interesting, though…

That is, as the DA clambers out of the van, ostensibly to freshen up for bed, Dark fiddles with the television. It has no visible antenna, but perhaps they might be able to pick up  _ something _ to watch, should they so desire.

After all, VHS tapes are a rarity, these days.

As he reaches for the screen, however—

It bursts into static snow, warping as he moves his hand, edging cyan and red in places.

Fascinating. From his static, his experience with Mark’s equipment, he should have guessed he may interfere with electromagnetic signals.

As for what he may be able to do with it…

That may take some experimentation.

————

_ How did we manage to- _

_ I don’t know! But thank god Egos can’t die by injury. I’ve had more than enough blood and death in my life, thank you. _

_ … _

_ … I know. You don’t have to say it. We’ll have enough to cover the cost of a replacement… everything. _

_ … Is Will alright? _

_ He’s fine. _

_ Really? _

_ I promise, Celine. He’s… he’s in one piece. _

————

Back before everything— before the void, before their deaths, before poker and abandonment and falling out— Mark’s Halloween parties were the highlight of the holiday season.

Damien remembers ghost stories, parlor games, dancing and music and food. A group of close friends to enjoy it all with. A guaranteed dance partner until his leg acted up.

Mark’s favorite holiday.

The actor in him made it his favorite: a chance to go all out in a brand new persona and make a  _ spectacle _ of it. The generous, kind man in him made it a chance to spoil his friends and invite the general public.

This is not one of those parties.

This is a fraction of a shadow of them.

This is somehow an even  _ worse  _ idea than the whole road trip.

Turning the DA’s sleeping space into a haunted house? Taking an unmarked van into a private place and inviting people to come inside?

Nevermind that the false weapons and blood have a powerful effect on the DA; their face goes tight and sweaty, eyes wide.

They look away from the scattered assortment of decorations— fair, as he can hardly look at damnable and garish things himself— to focus their eyes on the television.

He’s been refining his static creation, fiddling with it while Mark and the DA focus on decoration, but—

A strange expression crosses their face. They scoot in a bit closer, eyes tracking over the brief flashes of color in the snow.

Their hand raises up—

He can nearly feel  _ warmth _ —

( _ Please! Please, I’m right here, can you see me? _ )

_ Just a little closer— _

“Hey!”

Mark snaps his fingers, which snaps their concentration in turn. Blinking as if to clear their vision, the DA shakes their head and turns to Mark.

“What’s going on? We gotta get this set up, we’re burning daylight.”

Mark shoves a sheet of blood stickers at the DA and rolls open the side door, hopping out with entirely inordinate energy.

As the DA follows suit, Dark considers what just happened.

If they weren’t interrupted…

Could they finally speak to each other again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @fgfluidity on tumblr


	8. Chapter 8

There’s a budget to be made. Production isn’t free.

Ideas to be vetted, greenlit or turned down. For all their creativity, not all creativity if fit for public consumption.

The Host’s radio show, Bim’s games, Wilford’s supposedly hard-hitting journalism— not even to mention the various and sundry _other_ pitches he’s allowed to go through— it all needs to be made.

The manor needs repairs, as always. The Host can only do so much on his own, and every day there’s a dozen new ones either created or discovered from days past.

... Perhaps he’s been neglecting his duties at the manor.

Dark knows the egos under his... his watch need proper guidance, should they actually hope to be of any use to his plans; even beyond that, to make sure they have a life to live at all- given their collective propensity for mayhem and violence, maybe the manor is no longer standing.

_You should check in._

It’s so strange, hearing their voice without seeing their mouth move.

... Yes, he’s watching them now, in their van in the middle of the night, lit up blue by the television set.

It’s easy to blame that on Damien, enamored despite everything. It’s easy to say it’s their voice in his mind spurs some sort of nostalgia. It’s easy to say it’s to make sure Mark hasn’t touched them.

It’s much harder to admit that he, as Dark, as the broken amalgamate, has grown fond.

That ‘bed’ is little more than a flat, thin pad over storage space, but the DA has it fixed up with soft blankets and more pillows than perhaps strictly necessary. It’s in this cozy nest, dressed in their pajamas, that they flick through their limited channels on the old CRT, mere inches to his right from where he looks back in the passenger seat.

They blink slowly, clearly drowsy with glassy eyes and sluggish movement, head listing to one shoulder and the pillows they’re propped against, but they don’t stop clicking.

Static.

Static.

_I have a new producer, is all- it takes-_

Static.

_We’re looking at scattered showers, drastically cooler temperatures—_

Static.

... Wait a second.

[ _Oh, Damien! Damien, there you are- now, listen, I fully-_ ](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Rpq_MWUd21FIJBM3Ysteg7YHWT3LAAOjNfpQZ5LoVAg/edit?usp=sharing)

Wil. He flips the channel himself. If the DA sees him, even as much as he’s changed—

He knows how they died.

( _We can’t risk them hurt at the very sight of the man who killed them._ )

Even if it might jog their memory.

As much as he wants it to.

If they just remembered—

They don’t notice his interference— just snuggle further into their pile, eyelids heavier and heavier.

Before long, their thumb stops pressing, and their eyes remain shut.

They’re asleep. Peaceful.

( _I haven’t seen them so peaceful since university. Maybe not even then, the busy bee._ )

The fondness in his voice aches around the already-present pain in Dark’s chest.

He could have appeared to them. Spoken to them. Seen if they remembered, if they could be convinced just how _evil_ their apparent ‘best friend’ is.

It’s no use wondering why he didn’t.

... Could he, perhaps—

_Without permission?!_

A sleeping mind is an open one. Access to memories. Suggestion. If ever he could turn the tide in his favor-

_Absolutely not!_

( _... Do it. Go to them._ )

Dark nearly laughs aloud in disbelief. Wholesome old Damien, suggesting such a thing?

( _We have to get them away from that- that monster. Whatever it takes. Please._ )

Well, if he insists. Ignoring the increasing protests of the conscience in the back of his mind, Dark reaches out of the shadows, more void than solid flesh.

There’s no doubt that his gentle caress over their cheek is Damien. He allows it.

**Warm. Gold, brown, cream. Old books and tea. They’re beautiful as ever, enjoying the sun that comes from nowhere and everywhere. Comfortable in a nest. Feathers, or blankets? Downy either way.**

**He doesn’t hurt. He looks at himself. Only tinted blue for a moment, then his own tan skin— not gray, not cold. No Celine, no entity-as-glue. He’s Damien.**

**It’s university all over again. Don’t they deserve it? Doesn’t he deserve to go over and greet his old friend, the person he loves?**

**It’s a dreamland. They could have this. He could say everything. They wouldn’t have to be hurt. Neither of them, ever. Turn down Mark’s invitation and damn the politics.**

**Walking through honey— not literally, but the air slows his progress. They don’t notice, sipping tea, lost in pages of prose. He calls their name, reaches, desperate—**

**Their attention turns to him, eyes growing wide as saucers. Disbelieving. Hopeful. Damien?**

**Yes! Yes, it’s me! He stretches further, overjoyed as their hand lifts towards his. It’s me, I’m here.**

**Why are dreams as they are? Why does it take so long to feel their fingers against his?**

**Because it _hurts_.**

**Their voice in two places at once, screaming in the worst agony he can feel as he splits apart all over again. Like his death and theirs, a million times over, unending and all at once.**

**It wasn’t meant to be.**

He’s shunted out of their dream, disoriented and in pain.

It’s a blur for him, as it must be for them, screaming awake in their nest— _screaming_. A voice. Theirs.

Theirs that weakly calls for Mark— says his name!— once they scramble for their phone, pushing at buttons until the emergency contact rings.

Theirs that turns into pained sobs when he doesn’t pick up.

He takes stock of himself amidst the shock. Himself, body in as much of one piece as he could ever be.

Damien—

( _They’re- no, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, my darling, I never meant to-_ )

Celine’s asleep, still, though a warm if faint presence deep down within himself. How she slept through that racket is a mystery.

The— The conscience—

...

Nothing.

Even when he probes for it.

He threatens the egos back home. Details his torturous plans for Mark.

Silence.

His conscience is gone from his head.

Rather, it’s right back where it should be, curled into tear-stained blankets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @fgfluidity on tumblr!
> 
> hmm.... isn’t that strange, what wilford says? does it, perhaps...


	9. Chapter 9

“Attention returns to The Host, who proceeds to narrate the scene. He, along with others, sits at the conference table in one of the many such rooms present in the Ego Manor. 

“Though the conversation at one point _was_ about the various projects needing to be fulfilled, his own narration has interrupted-“

“Are you finished?” Wilford frowns down from the head of the table, indignant. “I was _right_ in the middle of something, Hosty, and that is _very_ rude!”

“The Host respectfully lowers his volume and says I apologize, Wilford. Please, continue your portion of the presentation.”

Wilford huffs. “As I was saying-“

“You’ve had your turn for long enough, Wil,” Dark grumbles. The world around his end of the table warps and cracks, gray and cold. It speaks to his mood that everyone else at the table has moved their chairs far away from the creeping edge of static. “Move it along.”

“Damien-“

“ _Now_.” Dark grits his teeth as he says it, teeth somehow a bit too sharp, as the static flares, red and cyan through the cracks.

Someone whimpers in the crowd. It could have been anyone, but they’ll never tell.

Wilford throws up his hands and backs out of his slideshow, passing the remote to the next Ego on the list. As he slumps down into a seat— far closer than anyone else has dared to get to Dark in days— he grumbles. “You’re no fun these days, Damien.”

Dark curls his lip in a sneer. “I was never all that fun,” he intones, irritably.

“I beg to differ! All those japes and jokes, oh, and you were a real party animal.” Wilford leans in to jab at him with an elbow. “I saw you empty that keg that night, we all did!”

That night—

Perhaps it’s the touch that does it— he hasn’t touched anyone since... then, and has no plans to— or the implication that Wilford might _remember_ ; either way, the sneer morphs into a snarl as the room goes black and warps, cracking at the corners.

“Wilford,” Dark sounds like thunder, a demonic growl that cracks just as the room does, “Remove your arm from me or I shall do it for you. Would that be the kind of _fun_ you’re looking for?”

The voice would have stopped him. Scolded him. Figured something more agreeable to say. However, well...

The room remains silent as the dead save for his rage, static and eerie. Not a single other being in the room dares to breathe, move— what if Dark’s ire turns their way, instead?

You’d have to be mad to provoke him.

Then again, what is Wilford, if not mad? Rather than cow under the threat, the display of his power, Wilford just laughs and draws his arm back. “ _There’s_ the fun Damey I know! Real firecracker sometimes, ha!”

Dark simply sighs, a weary numbness taking over for his anger, and waves a hand towards the front of the room. “As you all were. Who’s next?”

It isn’t Wilford’s fault. Isn’t really the ego’s fault.

As always, it really just boils down to them. _Him_.

\---

He remained by the DA’s side the next day, worried for how his meddling may have affected them. If it hurt him as bad as fragmenting— _worse_ than fragmenting— if it made them _scream_ — what could it have possibly done to them?

They had horrible trouble returning to sleep, face buried in their rapidly-dampening pillow, calling Mark repeatedly only to reach an automated message.

They needed someone. They were afraid and hurt and they needed help, and—

He was all the way corporeal in the back of the van before Dark managed to catch himself and dissolve back into shadow.

Had Mark heeded their call and come to them, saw him— if they remembered, now...

Well. Best to stay hidden, for now.

It wasn’t until morning when Mark, visibly concerned, rolled open the van door. “Buddy? You awake?” He stepped up and inside, scooting across to their bed on his knees as the DA blearily sat up. “I’m so sorry, I was dead asleep, I didn’t hear a thing. Are you okay? What did you need?”

It was cold comfort to his crackling energy that Mark looked uncomfortable at their tight embrace. “Hey— hey, now, what did—“

“Mark,” they sobbed, quiet and wavering.

Mark froze. “What— did you just—“

“It came back.” The DA sniffed, didn’t bother removing their face from his shoulder. “I— I don’t know, but I had— had this dream and I hurt so much when I woke up it felt like I was _dying_ —“

Dark couldn’t help but flinch back, guilt burning deep inside him. He was surprised to find Mark doing the same.

“— and it was just _back_.” They took a moment to breathe— trembling like a leaf, what he wouldn’t give— “What happened to me?”

“I—“ Mark gave them one, two pats on the back, then carefully extricated himself from their grip. “I don’t know. What did you dream about? Maybe that triggered something?”

Their brow furrowed. “It wasn’t a nightmare.”

“But you have them often.”

“Not this time,” they insisted. Still, the news of nightmares... Dark hadn’t known. Their true self, memories shining through? “No, it was... it was so nice. Until—“

“— until you woke up in pain, somehow.” Mark’s brow furrowed as well, but far more thoughtfully. “Hm. Well, whatever the reason, I’m glad you’ve got your voice back, sunflower. It’s been quiet around here.”

That old name...

Something from before, yes. The DA smiled at the nickname, but if there was any recollection of that time, it didn’t show. 

At least, they didn’t mention it. Rather, they replied, teasingly, “With all your shouting, I wouldn’t call it quiet.”

Mark sighed, faux put-upon. “My audience demands it.”

“Then I’d hate to interrupt.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” Something changed in Mark’s expression, and his eyes flickered away from the DA. Towards the shadowy corners of the van. Towards Dark. “I know you aren’t one to _meddle_.”

\---

How does he always seem to know where Dark is?

Dark can’t fathom it— the man has no powers, not like Celine did, not like he or any of the egos do now. He can’t be seen when he’s part of the shadows, can keep his aura well-concealed if necessary.

It unnerved him all that time ago before the mirror... shattered, and it does every time he goes to check on the DA.

He _always_ knows.

So... Dark simply stops going.

Not— not entirely. Nothing could keep him from— from them forever.

If the events of the past near century have shown anything, it’s that they’re connected no matter what.

......

Funny. Damien would have had something to say about that, the romantic he is.

He’s been extra quiet, lately.

Damn that impulse to touch them. Everything’s changed.

Himself, the DA, everything.

... They seem happy. Happy to have a voice again, more vibrant, less angry and tired. It suits them.

Though he hasn’t heard them sing yet. God, does he wish they would— his songbird, right back to themself.

His—

Dark clenches his jaw and returns to work, ignoring the blue wash of light over his desk in the void. Keeping them all afloat is— is the priority.

**Oh, but is it, though?**

Dark snaps to attention, snapping his pen along with it and sending a spray of ink over his hand and papers. “You.”

**Me!** Mark sings. He comes from everywhere and nowhere— no, perhaps not. The faintest pulsing of crimson light in one direction, matching his cadence. **I know your priorities, Damien. It isn’t work, and it isn’t them. It’s Me.**

The desk is gone in a second as he flash-steps in the direction of the light, crackling red and blue echoes of himself all around. “You only come when you want something. What is it?”

Mark laughs, and it echoes and warps through the void, reverberating too loud and close for comfort. **I don’t want anything. Well, perhaps your attention.**

Dark curls his lip. He _always_ wants attention. 

**I’m taking my... _friend_ ,** he says, too pleased with himself, **on a little adventure. As you’ve been _watching_ them for... well, who knows how long, I thought you might want to stop in for this one. And it isn’t like all the others— life and limb at stake, this time.**

Life and limb— as if everything he’s done up to this point _hasn’t_ been a direct assault on those very things. That being said, if even _Mark_ is warning him of danger... “What are you going to do to them? If you touch them—“

**Aw, so protective. I should tell them all about their guardian _demon_.** The light pulses, and something flutters to the ground. Some thin packet of paper, with typeface. A script? No, too thin, only about four or five sheets, but when he pages through it... **But if you’d like to show up, yourself, feel free. October thirtieth, Damien— don’t be late.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @fgfluidity on tumblr

**Author's Note:**

> find me @fgfluidity on tumblr!


End file.
